San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1887-09-15

this chance TO get away unremaTkcd.'
After got this letter and knew that Gil
bert had gone, sank into torpOr of mis-
cry. To say that was wretched Is TO name
the only word can 10 express my unhappi-
ness. would have gone away somewhere
and thrown myself intonew work, and tried
to hope that GiIbert would learn some day
that he had misjudged my actions. But the
Grange would haunt me more than any
scene outside its walls could haunt him;
memories lurked in every cOm'T whispers
echoed In every room, and wrru murmured
by the ruStling pinc-trros without; and the
hateful parchment which left the legacy TO
me seemed 10 hang round my neck like the
dead albatrOSs around the Ancient Mariners.
| did not want the place: wished with all
my heart llilda and her lawyers would rid
me of IL. 1t was Gilbert's; hut | could do
nothing to place itin his possession, nothing
but die; and almost hoped might die.
The story had gone abroad that Gilbert
was but taking tour in the East until the
time was far enough distant from his UNI
cle's death to allow Of our marriage. did
not contradict IT, / said no word that lcOuld
help 10 any one, and most Of all struggled
10 keep the knowledge of the truth from
Gwendolnc. Her happiness was the one
bright spot in the darkness, and in her new
born hopes and eager gratitude she never
suspected aught WAS wrong.
III the world were only just, you should
be the happicSt woman in II, Viola" she
said one day; land | hope for once the
world will be just"
The happirst! thought in my youthfu.
selishncss was the most miserable.
IL shall think of you So often" she went
on, land send wishes and hopes across the
sea to you. You are the one being on earth
who knows how near the edge of the preci
pice | was. hardly dare think OF that time,
how wicked and utterly without hope was;
and it was you who rescued me-"
They were In haste to return to India, and
we were all busy with preparations for their
journey. went with Uric down to South
amptOn to see them of, and, as the vessel
set sail, GwendOline stood on the deck,
graceful slender gray figure, with one flash
of crimson in her hat, waving her handker-
chief to me. And took away the memory
of her beautiful face with its shining hazel
eyes and cleaning golden hair, and of the
pride and pleasure in the look her husband
turned on her, to cheer my life for the long
perplexed days to come.
1illul went Ddch 10 neT ullCle anu aunt III
London, her diamond engagement-ring on
her finger and the prospect of a countess
ship before her.
made an effort to part in peace. | did
not know it was she who had marrrd my
life; but she knew too that, except in hav-
ing separated Gilbert and me, her schemes
were unavailing.
Can we not part friends, lIilda?' | asked
on the morning of her departure. | longed
to have no enemies among Gilbert's rela-
tives, and | had done nothing to injure
Hida. Why should she still be so unkind?
II do not see" she answered calmly,
'why we should make any pretence because
we are going 10 part. You have played your
cards we'll and have succeeded in befOolng
a argernumber of people than you, | should
think, could have expected. am not one
of the number"
uttered no further word, and, when the
carriage came to the porch, she got in and
drove away, without one look back at the
beautiful home she was leaving.
But Anns, who was going with her, chung
to me and cried, and said it would break her
heart to leave me; and why could she not
be married from the Grange? And then she
smiled and laughed, and declared how de-
lightful it would be when she could come
and see me and | pay visits to her, and we
should always be near each other
watched the carriage drive down the
broad gravel way, Annis looking from the
window until she could see me no longer. |
tracked it along the road till it rounded the
lake and became only dark spot in the dis
lance, and could hear the wheels no more.
Then, with a rising, choking sob, turned
away into the great dark hall, with its
armOr and antlers and beautiful grOined
roof, and the dreary empty house. All were
gOne-Gilbert, GwendOline Annis-and |
was alone. So short time ago that every
thing appeared like dream had come, a
simple companion to the old master of this
glorious Grange; now Twas its owner. Then
| was full of hope, life seemed all in future;
now was full of despair life seemed all in
the past.
went to my desk and got out pen and
paper to write one last word to Gilbert.
"Your cousins" wrote, shave just left the
Grange for London. Gwcndolinc has sailed
for India. too shmll leave here tomorrow,
and set foot I'm st. Gabriers Grange no more.
II you would take IL, and set inc Tree from
the burden of my trust. | might have peace.
and some day perhaps you will learn that you
have misunderstood; hut shall trouble you
| dire CtCns that the house shall be kept in per-
| feet ORDER and held In readiness for your
| Homecoming. Ii will so stay until you come,
whether you return now or wait until am
| dead.
"Always unchanged md unchanging,
"VIOLA THORNE."
Annis knew was to leave that next day.
| She had begged hard that | would stay, and
| let her remain with me; and perhaps she
| thought me unkind to refuse.
at is quite natural you should want to go
| hOme-I know il is" she said But II
| could only have stayed with you, ViOlaW
had no heart TO tell her that Gilbert and
were parted for ever; | knew how amazed
and indignant she would be, what questions
she would pour upon me, with what loving
sympathy she would surround me, and
could not bear it. Every one would learn
soon enough.
| suppose the servants must have thought
my manner little strange-pOssibly they
talked among themselves; but | did moi
notice them, and indeed to me they main
tanned always the same quiet respectful de-
meanOr. So | gave my simple orders, and
| packed my small wardrobe, and wandered
all day through the big desOlate rooms, gaZ'
ing at the azure and or of the GascOigne
arms in the lOzenge-paned, deep-sunk win
dOws, pacing the long oak-panelled cor
ridOrs, walking up and down the long apart
ments, with their tapestries and furniture
and rich colOrs, where the GascOigne's an
cestOrs looked down reprOachfully and con
| temptuOusly at the small dark creature who
| had no right or place among them.
| had strayed once more into Mr.. Gas
| cOigne's room and was standing beside the